


Morning Prayers

by iulia_linnea



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-05
Updated: 2012-11-05
Packaged: 2017-11-18 01:12:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/555238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iulia_linnea/pseuds/iulia_linnea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He does not understand why she spends gentleness on brutality."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morning Prayers

**Author's Note:**

> Written 28 September 2005.

_Shut up, shut up, shut up_. . . .

He sits in the corner in a parody of self-comfort; for though he has wrapped his arms about himself, he hates himself for crying. In his head, he is screaming as loudly at himself as his father is at his mother.

"You'll never make a wizard out of him by polluting the brat's mind with that trash! The boy needs discipline and proper training! He doesn't need a mother who ruins him by—"

_Stupid, worthless, pathetic git_! _Careless waste of womb matter_! _This is your fault,_ your _fault_!

He hears his mother try to defend her purchase of a Muggle chemistry set, her sobbing intermittently interrupted by shrieks and the sounds of wet slaps. He does not know if it is the money or the Muggle part of the gift that his father despises more; he knows only that it was a secret, a dear secret, and he has broken his word by leaving it out where his father could find it.

_And I may have broken Mother_.

"I'll kill you, you mudblood-loving slag!"

His arms uncurl, and he stands up on shaking legs. He has always been afraid of his father, but he loves his mother. She needs him now, and he is not a coward.

"Gods curse your womb, woman! I'll—"

_Shut up,_ shut up _, shut up_!

The blood is unexpected. It pours from his father's slackened, silenced mouth and runs in rivulets _up_ his face and over his forehead to slick his hair. He is certain that the man is dead because no one can hit a wall with that much force, land in such a twisted pile, and survive it. For a moment, he smiles.

"Se—Severus, what have you _done_?"

_I don't know_ , he thinks, blinking drying eyes. "I . . . I don't know, Mother."

His father groans.

"Wi—wizard," the man spits.

"Here now," his mother says, moving to her husband's side. "Let me help you."

He watches in disgust as his mother's expression becomes transfigured from fear and shock to the semblance of love and concern, and he despairs. He does not understand why she spends gentleness on brutality; he does not understand why he craves his father's approval. He understands only that these unknowns scare him. But he is not a coward. To hide his fear, he picks up the pieces of his fractured gift and takes comfort from his most private of litanies.

_Shut up, shut up, shut up_.


End file.
